


Offering

by keepcalmsmile



Series: Father Remove This Cup From Me [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biblical References, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Pre-Series, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Teenchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 12:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7463466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepcalmsmile/pseuds/keepcalmsmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is determined to save Sam from hell. Bobby is determined to save Sam from John.<br/>Reading parts 1&2 of the series is helpful, but not necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offering

7 And Isaac spake unto Abraham his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here  _am_  I, my son. And he said, Behold the fire and the wood: but where  _is_  the lamb for a burnt offering?

8 And Abraham said, My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering: so they went both of them together.

9 And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood.

10 And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.

Genesis 22:7-10

 

 

“Sam asleep?” Bobby asked, pouring a shot of whiskey into a glass and handing it to me.

“Sam kicked me out,” I said drily, accepting the glass with a sigh and collapsing into the chair opposite Bobby.

“Kid just about got sliced to pieces. He’s probably due a little license to be pissed.”

“Which is why I left.” I couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of my voice. Despite Sam’s vocal, and Bobby’s more subtle, questioning of my choices, I did sometimes actually know how to be a father.

“I’m sorry,” Bobby said, as if he was reading my mind (and honestly, sometimes I wondered if there wasn’t some low-key psychic ability rattling in that drunken brain). “We’ve all had a good scare. We all deserve a little slack.”

A vivid image of Sam, chained to a chair, blood flowing from a dozen different wounds on his arms, legs, and torso, a demon wearing the suit of a forty-year-old insurance agent standing over him, bloody knife in hand, skewered through my thoughts.

Dean had pounced with a feral growl, armed with his fists, a flask full of holy water, and twenty-one years of overprotectiveness while I performed the exorcism. It was over quickly enough. Especially since, while the demon landed a few good blows, I could tell she wasn’t actually fighting.

The rest was a desperate ER run as Dean tried keep Sam from bleeding out in the backseat of the Impala, more stitches than I wanted to think about without another couple more shots, and crashing at Bobby’s to give Sam time to recover.

I swallowed the whiskey and helped myself to some more, “Sam’s more or less healed up. Dean can remove the stitches in the morning and we’ll be on our way.”

“More or less,” Bobby echoed, draining his own glass and pouring himself another, “The kid started walking himself to the bathroom a couple of days ago.”

“It could have been worse.” I could feel Bobby’s darkening glare as a stared into my glass, but the whiskey, combined with copious amounts of alcohol I’d drunk throughout the day, not to mention the blind panic I’d been feeling since Sam had disappeared, made it all but impossible to give a damn.

“I don’t wanna know what you think of as worse,” Bobby said coolly, “But from where I sit it looked like Sam was doing a pretty good impression of Jesus’s bleeding from every pour.”

“He should be dead,” I said, draining my glass to force back the bile creeping up my throat.

“Well then thank God, he ain’t.”

A low, desperate sound that mostly resembled a laugh forced its way up my throat, along with some more bile, “Pretty sure we don’t have God to thank, Singer.”

“What the hell are you saying, John?” Bobby pulled the whiskey away before I could pour some more.

“I mean I’m pretty sure it was the opposite of God keeping Sam safe.”

“You and I need to have a conversation about the meaning of the word _safe_ , Winchester.”

“That’s the part of that sentence you find important?” I shot back.

Bobby hesitated a couple seconds before speaking, “No, I think the rest of it’s damn important, but “safe” is the part I think you’re not thinking about.”

“You think I don’t care about keeping my sons safe!” I said, jumping to my feet and towering over the man.

“Sit back down, Winchester,” Bobby sounded annoyed more than anything, “And mind your voice. I don’t want you waking those boys.”

I obeyed, albeit with a low, dark growl. What the fuck did this man know?

“Now,” Bobby said, pouring both of us more whiskey, “What did you find the two weeks you’ve been away that’s got you freaked to hell?”

I ignored the subtle censure, mostly because I deserved it. I _had_ turned around and left less than half an hour after dropping the boys off at Bobby’s. Even Dean seemed incredulous.

“You’re not gonna stay with him?” he had asked.

“I’ve gotta make sure the demon that came after your brother won’t turn up again.”

Dean hadn’t like that answer, but he accepted it. Bobby hadn’t say anything, but I could feel his dark glare ten miles out of Sioux Falls. Neither of them told me what Sam said when he woke up; I suppose I had no right to know.

I dismissed the memories. What I’d done had been necessary. Bobby would see that now.

“A couple minutes before Dean called saying Sam hadn’t come home from school,” I began slowly, “I found this on the front shield of the Impala.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small piece of paper I’d been opening, reading, and rereading every hour since Sam went missing. It was already creased and leathery, but the words were plenty legible when I slid it across the table to Bobby.

“Picked up Sammy from school today,” Bobby read slowly, “Just wanted to introduce myself.” He hesitated, “Is that written in . . .”

“Blood,” I answered dully, “Sam’s, I’d guess.”

A low string of curses streamed from Bobby’s mouth like a hiss.

I didn’t want to think about some black-eyed bastard using my boy as an ink-well, so I pressed on, “You know what this means, don’t you, Singer?”

Bobby folded up the paper, obviously trying not to look at the words too carefully, and slid it back across the table to me, “I know what you think it means.”

“And that is?”

Bobby spoke slowly, as if he felt he had to say the words, but wanted more than anything not to, “You think that whatever took Sam is connected to what killed Mary, and you think he’s gonna come after him again.”

I glared at the old man, “You’re saying it like it’s a damn stupid idea. I’ll remind you that you’re the one who first . . .”

“I’m the one who first put that together for you. Yea, I remember.”

“And . . .”

“And dammit, John that’s what scares the hell out of me!” Bobby hissed—ever mindful of the sleeping boys—“Because you told me all those years ago you wanted to do this to save your boy, and now you’re telling me he should be dead and that you think he’s been marked as one of hell’s favorites . . . just because of some note any grunt demon could have left to yank you around!”

“Don’t you think I know that!” I kept my voice low too, if only to prove to the bastard he couldn’t out-father me in _every_ way. “Don’t you think the first thing I did was vet this story?”

“And. . .”

“And I summoned and tortured a dozen demons, and every one of them knew about Sam.”

“Any supernatural creature worth its salt has heard of you and your boys.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. They all _knew_ him. Said he was one of the big topics in hell, said many of them thought he was the favorite.”

“Favorite for what?” Bobby grimaced, as if he hated to ask the question—hated to encourage me.

“Most of them wouldn’t say,” I said, “Might not have even known, but one, one let something slip.”

I took a deep breathe. I’d never said the words aloud, and some deep, irrational part of me thought that if I did, it would make them come true.

“Yes . . .” Bobby said, impatience disguising his unease.

“One of them called him the Boy King,” I whispered, not for the boys’ sake this time, but for mine. I couldn’t say the words any louder, “I was bathing him in holy water, and in the midst of the screams, he screamed that the Boy King would set him free.”

“Set the demon free, from where?”

“From hell, I guess. Maybe even from me . . . plenty of guys in ‘Nam called on God to save them when they sure has hell knew he wouldn’t show.”

“I see,” Bobby sank back in his chair, not even bothering with the whiskey anymore. “Is there anything else?”

“Don’t you think that’s enough?”

Bobby nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the wall behind me as his brain worked over the new information.

“ _Well_?” I finally demanded.

“Well, what are you gonna do?”

“Keep my boy safe,” I growled, “No matter what.”

Bobby rolled his eyes, “So you’ve been sayin’ for the last seventeen years. Got anything clearer than that?”

“Goin’ to start focusin’ on demons. Leave the boys out of it though. They can handle low-level stuff while . . .”

“While you handle the big guys on your own. Genius idea, Winchester.”

“Well I’m sure as hell not gonna push them into this!” I said, “Especially not Sam!”

“Which reminds me . . . you gonna tell Sam why you think a demon just tried to use him as a paper shredder?”

I snorted, “Hell no!”

“And why not?” Bobby crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, daring me to answer.

“I can’t lay that on my own kid!” I said, “I can’t tell him that . . .”

“That you think he’s gonna go dark side,” Bobby interrupted, “That’s what this is about, isn’t it. Some demons start whisperin’ in your ear, and you think Sam’s gonna go all anti-Christ.”

I stared at my empty glass for a long time, “That’s what they’re sayin’.”

“Screw the demons, John! Look at your son! If you would spend ten minutes with that boy aside from barkin’ goddamned orders at him, you’d see that what you’re suggestin’ is fucking ridiculous!”

“That’s not how demons work and you know it!” I jabbed a finger at him, “You _know_ they take all that is good in this world. They take the only pure things in this fucking cesspool of a world and they _twist_ them, they _turn_ them until there’s nothing good left! Until they’re as dark and twisted as the deepest pits in hell!” I slammed my fist on the table, “But that is not going to be my son. I’m not going to let them take Sam. No matter what!”

“And what, exactly, are you gonna do to stop them?” Bobby’s voice went cold.

I felt the rage drain out of me, “Whatever I have to. I’ll do whatever it takes . . . even if I have to . . .”

“Have to what?” there was a dangerous edge to Bobby’s voice now. I recognized it from the times we confronted monsters together.

“Have to kill him, Bobby,” I croaked, “I hope to God it never comes to it, and I’ll blow my own brains out if I have to, but if I have to kill him to keep him safe . . .”

I never even saw the blow until I was sprawled on the floor and Bobby was standing over me, white with fury, “You son of a bitch!” he hissed, “You selfish, self-righteous son of a bitch! How could you say that? I could you even _think_ it? About your own son!”

“You think I like it?” I pulled myself to my feet and drew near so that I was practically spitting in his face, “You think I _like_ thinking about this? You think I’ve slept these past two weeks, with these thoughts running through my brain? That I’ll be too late, that I won’t think of something, _anything_ else!”

“I think you’re right,” Bobby growled, grabbing collar of my jacket, “I think you’re right, that demons take what is good in this world and twist it to their own ends. That’s the only fucking way I can understand how a _father_ could stand here and tell me he’s willing to kill his own _son_ , how he’d even _think_ of it . . . all because of a few demonic rumors!”

“This is bigger than me, Bobby!” I shouted, “This is bigger than me, or Sam, or Dean, or even Mary! That demon called him the Boy King for fucks sake! And you said what happened to Mary is more evil than anything you’ve ever heard of! We’re talking huge here Bobby! We’re talking apocalyptic huge!”

“And you think you’re God,” he growled, and, for a second, his eyes blazed and I swore he was going to kill me, right then and there, “You think you’re God, to think you have any right to play with your son’s life like this.”

He shoved me away. I stumbled—from shock and whiskey—but caught myself before my ass hit the floor again.

“Listen to me Bobby . . .”

“No you listen to me!” Bobby whirled around to face me again, “We are done! I’m done helping you! I’m done listening to your pathetic excuses to justify what you’ve put those boys through, for what you want to put them through! I am not going to let your obsession over something that happened seventeen years ago _kill_ one of the only two good things you’ve got left in your pathetic life! You hear me, Winchester! We are done!”

“Dad?”

Both Bobby and I spun around. Dean was standing at the bottom of the stairs, fully dressed, gun in hand. He must’ve heard us shouting, and got up to make sure it was just us two drunk, stupid old men and not something more dangerous.

Although we were plenty dangerous by ourselves.

“Sorry, Dean,” I said before Bobby could open his mouth, “Bobby and I were just having a little disagreement.”

“Right,” the edges of Dean’s mouth tightened a little, but he looked away, clearly deciding not to call me out on it.

Always such a good soldier.

“Sam awake?” I asked.

Dean nodded, “Woke before me. Think the meds have mostly worn off.”

“Okay,” I nodded, “Well, you pack up and help get him to the car. We’re leaving in fifteen.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue or question, looking at me, then at Bobby, whose face was a strange mixture of fury and pain. Finally, he closed his mouth and nodded, turning back up the stairs with a last, troubled glance at the two of us.

This was the only place he and Sam ever approached to calling home, and he was smart enough to know we wouldn’t be back.

“You’re lucky he doesn’t know,” Bobby said coldly, “If he did, he’d beat your ass then load up Sam and disappear so fast it’d make your head spin.”

I knew he was right. “Don’t you dare tell them,” I growled, though I had no idea how I would make good on the threat.

“I won’t,” Bobby said, after a pregnant pause, “For now, and that’s only because those boys’ heads don’t need to be screwed up even more than they are.” He took a step closer, stabbing a finger at my heart, “But you listen to me, you bastard, if I catch wind, and I mean if a worm overheard a bird sayin’ you are even thinkin’ about pulling the kind of shit you were just tellin’ me about, you’ll be getting a lot more than a punch in the face!”

Clenching my teeth, I said, “I understand.”

“Bobby?” It was Sam this time, voice high and strained with exhaustion and pain, “What’s going on?” He glanced between the two of us, “What did he do?”

“Sorry to wake you, kid,” Bobby said, turning to face him. No one had looked at Sam like that since Mary.

For some reason, that just boiled my blood more, “We gotta go,” I said, “Get in the car.”

“But . . .” Sam looked almost frantically between Bobby and me. I could see the wheels turning into his head, trying to figure out what happened as Dean also descended the stairs, their duffle bags in hand.

Sam looked straight at me, “What the hell happened?”

I opened my mouth to beat that kid—my Sammy, oh God. How could I have said what I said about him? How could I have said what I said and still _mean_ it?—down, but before I could, Bobby said in that same, practically gentle voice.

“It’s alright kid. Just a spat between me and your old man is all. Go ahead and get yourself in the car. Don’t want you to strain those cuts more than you have to.”

Sam opened his mouth, ready to argue again, when Dean nudged his arm, “Come on, Sammy.”

He hesitated, looking between Dean and Bobby and paying about as much attention to me as he would a hat stand, but nodded.

“Alright,” Bobby moved towards my boys and wrapped his arms around Dean, “Take care of yourself, kid, and your brother.”

Dean startled at the embrace, but returned it as much as the duffles would allow, “Course Bobby, you too.”

“Same goes for you, Sam,” Bobby said, turning to my younger son and carefully wrapping his arms around him, ever mindful of his bandages.

“Sure thing,” Sam bit his lip as he tucked his shoulder over Bobby’s, eyes gleaming. Dean coughed and looked away, but I caught a glimpse of wetness in his own eye.

Bobby did not hug. They both knew what this meant.

“Alright, I said before my own throat started clogging up, “Let’s get goin’.”

They obeyed, neither of them looking at me as they headed slowly for the door. I followed without a word, and Bobby went after me, practically stepping on my heels.

“Now you listen to me,” he said, grabbing my arm once we reached the door. The boys paused and looked back at us, and I know Bobby was avoiding their gaze just as much as I was when he said, “Those boys are welcome here anytime, but you, John Winchester, you better get your shit together before you darken my doorstep again, you hear, or I’m gonna fill your ass with buckshot!”

“Fuck you, Singer,” I growled.

I turned and brushed past the boys. I felt them linger, looking back at the man they still called their uncle when they thought neither of us could hear.

We drove the eight hours straight that night without even Metallica filling the silence. 

**Author's Note:**

> The verses in Genesis reference the famous story where God commands Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac. Abraham obeys and is seconds front killing his son when an angel intervenes and explains that God simply wanted to test Abraham's faith.


End file.
